Somewhere in this Night
by Zeech
Summary: Dick Brewer is left at Blazer's Mill, thought to be dead by the Regulators. A stranger finds him and brings his strength back, but when he is fully recovered he finds the world does not seem to be as he left it. A series of vignettes.


Author's Note: This is a piece I've been waiting to post for sometime now. It's inspired by my love for Richard Brewer, and hell, Young Guns in general. The plot will begin to unfold in a series of vignettes rather than a long giant fanfic. Here's the first one, I hope you enjoy. It mostly focuses on the Regulators. A few new characters may be introduced. Thanks for the support, it's greatly appreciated! 

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**Somewhere in this Night**

**_Dick! Dick, we're comin to get ya! _**

Sometime after William H. Bonney and the Lincoln County Regulators mounted up and sped off into the evening in a frenzy of fear, panic and bullets Richard Brewer thought he should have been dead. Time passed. Hours dragged on and he lost and regained conciousness again and again, blood soaked from his burning wounds and into the dust. The sun hiked through the sky and allowed warmth to seep into his cold body, though the shivering never stopped. But Richard Brewer did not die.

When the sun began to slip out of the sky he opened his eyes and was able to see his shadow by his side, and the sight of his only made him colder. This was not the cold of any winter, or lingering chill of spring, it was a cold that one felt only when their warmth – their blood was slowly streaming out of their body, and leaving their bones to still in their flesh. It was a frightening cold, and Dick was afraid it would never leave. So he forced himself to move. 

The effort left him on only his side with his chest heaving and his eyes squeezed shut to keep the failing light out, and he gasped for air that would not enter his lungs. It was painful, the attempt to expand his lungs while blood increasingly flowed from his torn flesh. Dick felt himself falling again. 

"New Mexican nights can be cold," A rough voice caught him, and Dick jarred to conciousness again, though still unable to respond to his first instinct and draw his weapon. The old man who belonged to the voice did not harm him, however, and his knarled hands were gentle when set on Dick's cold, damp forhead. He slowly opened his bleary dark eyes, and found he was able to drag in a shuddering breath. Though focusing was impossible, he could make out the fuzzy curve of a lazy smile on the old man's kind face. "That's good, young man, it's very good. Keep breathing. You'll get it – you'll get the hang of it again."

Breathing? Dick thought he would never learn to breath again without feeling that horrid hollow pain in his chest and ribcage, but he tried to speak anyway through a mouthful of sour blood. He managed a dry whisper, a gravelly voice, "I'm bleeding," he choked, clutching the source of pain in his middle and still attemtping to see his rescuer. The man was only a dark shape against the orange sky. "I've …been shot, please…please help me."

"No need to grovel, son, I think you'll make it." A smile still lingered in the man's voice, and he was able to lean far enough over Dick to be in sight of the only warm part on his body, the heavy stain of blood that soaked the front of his garnments. "Let's move those hands and see how bad you really are…come on…" he gently pried Dick's stiff hands from guarding his injuries, showing only blood. Blood was everywhere, and the ripped flesh of the entrance wounds were barely recognizable in it. The old man frowned. Dick had lost a lot of blood. 

He set Dick's hands back in their curled positon about his ribs and straightened, giving their surroundings a quick survey for any remaining danger. Whoever shot this man may be sticking around to make sure he was dead. Nothing. It was getting dark, and the sun was now only a red and orange glimmer on a black horizon. 

"Allright, then," the man said, grunting with effort as he guided Dick up to his knees. Such a task was far too much for Dick to handle, and he nearly collapsed, his vision tunneling into darkness and his body heaving forward into the puddle of blood he left behind. Shivers, violent shivers, racked his body and triggered his gag refelx. He coughed hoarsly, the force scouring his tender throat, and a heavy blanket was draped over his shoulders. The old man pulled him to his feet with gentle movements, encouraging Dick to use him as support. "Let's go home…" he offered, but Dick stumbled, and muttered something that sounded vaguely like a whimper of protest, however inaudbile it was.

"I'm bleeding," Dick could only think of the pain he was in, and sickly enough, how much he wished it would remain. The pain kept him somewhat aware, somewhat coherent, and without it he could only drift along with the strange man's movements. The pain was a comfort because it was real, and he knew it was there, it was the only thing he could keep straight in his own mind. Nothing else, not the setting sun, or the fading sky, or the faint glows of lantern lit homes on the horizon filled him with the bitter comfort pain did. He lifted his head, pieces of dark brown hair falling into his already near-useless eyes, and muttered again, "I was shot…"

"I know, I know, don't worry." A hand gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Alicia's got a stew on the fire, you'll be up and about in no time at all."

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**To be continued.**


End file.
